


Doric Pillar

by laliquey



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Consensual Kink, Human Furniture, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 16:39:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6432217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laliquey/pseuds/laliquey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the depositions, Eduardo & Mark meet in secret for a weird D/S relationship that becomes an outlet for their feelings over a relationship they never had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doric Pillar

**Author's Note:**

> This is very new writing territory for me and I'm kinda nervous about it but figure I'll throw it out there in case anyone likes it. :)
> 
> Thanks for clicking! And if I've tagged inadequately please let me know. Thank you!

Sometimes Eduardo thinks about it but mostly he doesn't. He's been compartmentalizing assorted difficulties for years, and there's probably no figuring out this mess without a Psychology degree.

The twisted path from hatred to this was paved with a million bite-marks.

* * *

The first time was in Boston during the Harvard Connection depositions, when the idiots making hotel reservations hadn't thought to check who was staying where. Mark and Eduardo both ended up at the Langham, where they accidentally got into the same elevator without buffer of counsel or even strangers.

Elevators in a 1906 building are fucking _slow._

It had been a tense day of being on the same side as each other but not really. Mark felt threadbare from annoyance that the Winklevii lawsuit had even made this far, and equally worn out from being in the same room with Eduardo all day. It was even worse being stuck in that mirror-walled box with him. How come every other guy on earth, especially in an elevator, wore too much cologne but Wardo wore just enough that you'd have to be right up on his neck to really smell it? The hangover of what he fucked up and lost was not easy to look at. Which was ridiculous because Wardo was so fucking easy to look at.

“I bet you'd like to kick my ass,” Mark said, deadpan.

“Oh, you read minds now?”

“I'm just saying that today could be your lucky day.” The elevator crawled upward and Eduardo tried, as usual, to be the sensible one.

“We shouldn't be talking to each other.”

“Yeah, but I'm inviting you to literally kick my ass and yell me all you want,” Mark said, adding after a moment's pause, “I've been paying someone to do it lately.”

Eduardo nodded coolly, then thought about it. _What?_ “Excuse me?”

“I'm just saying maybe this could work for out both of us,” Mark said, and Eduardo followed him all the way to his room to hear more.

Mark didn't provide every detail, but once every few weeks, a woman came to his house with a sleek case of toys that could turn his mind as blank and clear as arctic tundra. Between work and lawsuits plural, his head was tangling into a heap of twisted analog tape and was about as useful, but getting worked over physically sent him to an empty wasteland where he could not think for a while...it cleared his mind and helped him sleep. It was becoming the only relief he knew, and of course it was insane to think Eduardo would ever want to _help_ him in any way, but there might be something in it for him, too. Like the satisfaction of hurting him. Within reason, of course.

Inviting Eduardo into it was so spontaneous and weird Mark never expected it to work, but that afternoon, after some negotiation and nervous stalling, Eduardo stripped down to his undershirt and beat his ass to a deep purple with his shoe. By the end he was trembling, grunting with every blow just like Mark was and the next day in the boardroom they couldn't look at each other, though Eduardo relished the way Mark couldn't sit still.

Eduardo extended his Boston stay by a day, and wandered into the meeting facility part of the hotel and found an abandoned roll of gaffers tape used to tape cords to the carpet. That night he taped Mark's eyes closed and pinched bruises onto his legs and bit scallops on his arms. Mark thrashed and cried when he laid into him with his expensive leather belt, but when it was over, Eduardo lay panting in bed, sweaty and exhilarated while Mark started to fall asleep with the peace of a baby. He touched him on the shoulder.

“You okay?"

"Uh huh."

"Is that what you wanted?"

"Yeah." He licked his lips and wiped his eyes.

“You want me to stay?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Okay. Call my room and hang up after one ring if you want more.”

At three thirty in the morning, Mark wanted more and got it, along with a welt that would last eight days and a ball-ache he took care of after Eduardo left for his own room.

* * *

Eduardo never wondered where the FedEx box with the nickel-tipped riding crop in it came from, nor was there any question of where to bring it.

* * *

The depositions are on the west coast now, and they're still doing it.

Eduardo is the plaintiff now, so that's different. He's also aware that what they're doing is a _thing,_ with rules and protocol, but he never investigates them. He doesn't want to know if he's doing it wrong, and anyway Mark has a word he can say, though he never does. Eduardo doubts this is therapeutic for either of them, but at the same time he's not interested in stopping.

During the day's legalese, Mark gives him needy looks across the table, almost like he wants a nod acknowledging their secret. It makes Eduardo wonder how much of this is business and how much is grotesquely misplaced sexual tension, like an unhealthy hangover from when something might have worked between them. He looks past Mark like he doesn't matter and rolls his eyes at every petulant interruption.

He'll be in charge as of five o'clock. It's not too long to wait.

* * *

Mark comes to the hotel and enters Eduardo's room with downcast eyes. How bad would Sy freak out if he knew he had his own key?

He finds Eduardo perched on one of the leather armchairs, looking like a magazine advertisement for either the chair or the suit. He's worn it for at least seven hours that Mark knows of and he hasn't even loosened his tie.

“What the fuck are you wearing today?" he asks.

Mark shrugs, embarrassed.

“I remember when you wore that in Boston. It looked just as stupid then as it does now. Take it off," Eduardo says, and inventories the items as they hit the floor. “A lilac t-shirt that's too big for you. Nice. Over a _tie._ Wow, Mark, that's really something. And how old is that white shirt?"

"Um, I dunno. Since high school?"

"It's fucking _see-through.”_ He peels off his own jacket, which has been expertly tailored to fit only him, and _loves_ that Mark can't stand it and looks away. He turns his back as he rolls up his sleeves and eases the knot in his tie. “Strip down to your boxers.”

Uncovered, Mark's body is whip-skinny and pale, and it's become routine to admire the marks left from last time; Eduardo likes photographing the best bruises up close with his phone, when they've got enough color layers to look like the surface of an alien moon.

"That's a good one,” he says of the plum-colored one decorating Mark's arm, shaded like a rotten peach around the edges. "Looks like it hurt,"

"It did,” Mark says softly. "It still does," he whispers, and in his mind he disappears, hiding behind a smooth Doric pillar with his eyes closed. There's so much space in their mental foreplay... the safety and security of total helplessness soaks into his bones, and he breathes deep and waits.

"Do you touch it and think about me?"

"Sometimes."

“Interesting. I think about you every time I look at my bank account. Now go to the bedroom and get on the bed. Face-down,” Eduardo says, and Mark does as he's told. In his periphery he sees Eduardo take the riding crop off the nightstand. It's been a nice addition - it suits Eduardo and Mark loves that he willingly owns an object he gave to him. He wonders if he ever takes it out of its case to look at it when they're apart.

The thin little black rectangle slowly traces Mark's shoulders, then his arms, and then he never knows where, the fastest, sharpest _CRACK_ imaginable. He squeaks in surprise and then moans as the sting grows hot and the pain soaks in, blooming like a sloppy red rose.

"You like that?"

"Yes." The tip barely touches the sensitive back of his knee and he tenses, anticipating the fierce snap but never knowing quite where it will land. The shaft whistles through the air and stops just short of meeting his thigh; he sighs at being spared and then sucks in a lungful of air when the tress slaps against the arch of his left foot so hard he can't make a sound. The stick pushes in between his toes, forcing two a little further apart than is comfortable, and then the rectangle suddenly bites an imprint into the flesh on the back of his arm, The thing's like a horsefly, bouncing around and biting him, and a blow a bit more wimpy than intended makes him lose a giddy little half-laugh. Then...

_WHAP!_

It splits his toes apart, and he curls up and tries not to scream. He's never once used his word, but it's close and Wardo knows it and puts a warm hand on his back.

"You can take it. That's right, don't make a sound."

Mark stretches back out to give him a bigger canvas to use the crop on; it stops being pain and it builds like code, layer upon layer of yellow heat building up in his core until he feels cleaned out inside. Eduardo's relentless and tells him he's a bad person, a weak person, and doesn't stop until Mark rolls onto his side to indicate he's had enough.

He backs off, triumphant. For some reason this always makes him feel taller. “I remember the last time you wore this stupid shirt. It was during the Winklevoss depos, and they took me out to dinner the night before. We talked about final clubs. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you, Mark?”

“No.”

“I slept with Cameron that night,” he says. “We went to my hotel and wore each other the fuck out.” It's a lie, but Mark doesn't know that. “His cock's as big as your arm.”

“Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Don't talk about that.”

“Why? Are you jealous?”

“Toblerone.” He means it - no more. He's red and embarrassed and...

“Are you about to cry?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.”

“Tell me what you want.”

It takes him a full minute to say it. “I want you...I want you to get off on me. If...if you can.”

Eduardo doesn't seem shocked; in fact, he treats it with the ambivalence of a job he doesn't love. “Okay,” he says. “Is your wallet in your pants?” Mark nods. “Alright, get up and get me one of your business cards. And whatever candy's in your bag.”

Mark does as he's told and sheepishly hands him a licorice rope and a card. Eduardo wraps the licorice into a coil and folds the card into accordion pleats. “Open your mouth,” he says, and stuffs them in. The card cuts a little, and Mark tries to maneuver his tongue to make it less uncomfortable. It's impossible. “Don't chew,” Eduardo commands. “Just hold them there. And get back on the bed face down.”

Mark does, and Eduardo leans down and mashes himself up against his ass. “You feel that?”

“Yes.”

Eduardo presses harder, grinds against the back of Mark's leg. “I'm not hard, am I?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't do anything for you.”

“I can't hear you with all that shit in your mouth.”

He swallows and tries again. “Because I don't do anything for you.”

“Right. Did you ever?”

“I...I don't know.”

“You never will, will you. Why not, Mark?"

"Because I'm an asshole."

"That's right, poor little rich boy. Now I want you to hold very, very still.”

Mark does as he's told and hears Eduardo unzip behind him. For a moment he's scared this will lead to something he isn't ready for and how can he say Toblerone with all this shit in his mouth, but Eduardo climbs up to sit on his ass. Mark whines under the weight and while Eduardo works himself into some unseen state of arousal, he imagines the sweet pain of getting fucked bent over his desk.

The warmth of Eduardo's cock suddenly pokes him between the shoulder blades. “You jealous little bitch,” he hisses, and from the slight rocking of his weight, Mark knows he's jerking off. He reaches around to hook his thumb in Mark's mouth and Mark sucks as hard as he can, getting a mouthful of cherry and spit and salt. The licorice starts to dissolve in his mouth - it softens the card, but it's hard to swallow and he's drooling pink all over the sheets. He's hard from all this - the pressure, the sounds coming from behind him, and Eduardo pulls his thumb out and grabs a fistful of curls, shoving his face into the mattress.

The pace gets faster. “Who do you think I'm picturing, Mark? When I come? Do you think it's you? Do you?”

Mark can't answer - the card's a pink, rubbery wad gluing his mouth shut, and all he can do is moan along with Eduardo as it builds and builds. Mark squirms for friction for himself and Eduardo's hand tightens in his hair...he cries out loud as warm, wet come spills out onto Mark's back and when his breathing slows he bends forward and plants a soft kiss between Mark's shoulders.

"Good boy." He puts a hand in front of Mark's mouth. “You can spit it out now,” he says gently, and Mark is too happy to unload the sticky mess of garbage into his palm. Eduardo deposits it on the nightstand and cleans up his hand and Mark's mouth and chin with a corner of sheet. "Good. Now lie back down, on your stomach like you were."

"Thank you," Mark says. He's _aching_ to get off, but there's a nice peace about lying there, with Eduardo tenderly corkscrewing his fingers through his curls, but then...no.

_He's rubbing come into his hair._

Mark's torn between disgust and loving it.

“Turn over and spread your legs,” Eduardo orders. “Now it's your turn. Jerk yourself off and try not to take all day.”

Mark wriggles out of his boxers and Eduardo gets down on his elbows, tracing the tip of his nose along the inside of his thigh, then pulls one of his balls into his mouth. Mark whimpers and strains as the other slips into the hot tightness of Eduardo's mouth. He's never done this with Eduardo. He's never done this with anyone.

They get used to this new equilibrium, and Mark starts to stroke himself, getting off on the tension of knowing Eduardo could bite at any time. He sucks a little, the pressure enough to tip Mark from quiet to noisy, and he arches and groans, fucking into his own hand as Eduardo pulls tight. He lets loose, unhinging his voice to say anything it wants. “Fuck yeah, yeah, yeah... Oh _God_ , Wardo...it feels so good...”

He pulls and climbs and finally jerks, coming all over his stomach in a series of powerful pulses unlike any he's ever felt before. His breathing starts to slow and he feels cold when Wardo gently lets him go.

“I'll give you a minute,” he says, standing up and stretching his mouth back into shape. “And then I want you to come into the next room to hold my drink.”

“Okay,” Mark says with a shiver.

Eduardo goes to the next room. He mixes a strong drink and sips it as the leather armchair sighs around him. _What in the fucking hell are we doing?_

He wonders if the lawyers could cut through all the bullshit.

 

**Mr. Saverin. Isn't it true that you and the defendant have been meeting for encounters of a sexual nature since this process started?**

_I wouldn't describe it as sexual._

**You don't think rubbing semen in my client's hair and teabagging him is sexual?**

_That only happened once, and...what I mean is it's not about sex. Sex is almost never involved._

**Almost never, I see. Isn't it true that the defendant offered you four hundred million dollars and unlimited access to sodomize him as an informal, off-record settlement?**

_Sodomize? People really use that word?_

**Mr. Saverin, what I'm getting at is this little game of yours. We'll keep playing it because your money's green and we're happy to keep taking it, but Gretchen and I have discussed reducing our own prep and research if this is all a joke to you two.**

_It's not a joke._

 

Mark crawls in on his hands and knees like a cat. He's put his boxers back on, and his back's dotted with red. He crawls up next to Eduardo's chair and folds over onto himself so Eduardo can set his sweating glass on his back like it's a table. Mark can hold this pose for almost half an hour. They've timed it.

“Tomorrow we're going to get to the offices ten minutes early and meet in the second floor bathroom,” Eduardo says. “I'm going to feel your hair, and if you've washed my come out you're going to lay your hands flat on the floor and I'm gonna stand on your fingers with all my weight. Understand?”

“Yes,” Mark whispers.

“And if it's still there, we'll go into a stall and shut the door and I'll kiss you. On the mouth.” He pets Mark's bare back, his nails gliding across his skin until he can see goosebumps.

Mark's voice is barely audible.

“I can't hear you,” Eduardo says.

“Permission to ask a question, please.”

Eduardo rubs his back. He likes this part of what they do, the tenderness afterward. “Ask it.”

“You didn't, right?” Mark murmurs into the carpet, into his forearms. “With Cameron?”

“I'll answer that if you submit it in writing with an explanation of why it interests you so much.” He runs his palm over Mark's ass. “Don't think I don't know you're avoiding what I just said. You can wash my come out,” he repeats firmly. “Or you can leave it in. You know what will happen either way.”

Mark struggles to balance the glass on his back. It's harder than usual - there's no way he can stay like this for half an hour. His nerves are all over the place and his limbs feel about as stable as rubber bands.

“Do you know what you're gonna do?”

Mark whines into the carpet - his legs won't stop shaking, but he swallows and finds his voice. “Yes.”

“Good."

Eduardo isn't sure how much of this is pretend and how much is real, but he forges ahead anyway and leans down to speak in Mark's ear. “I'm CFO, and everyone in that fucking room knows it. I'll play this game with you a little bit longer, but at the end of the week you're going to tell Sy that it's over. I want my money and I want my shares. You'll agree to that, right?”

It's not intentional. Mark trembles and the glass tips and tumbles to the floor, ice cubes flying.

He cowers down into his arms and waits.


End file.
